


Eight Inches

by Lightspeed



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Gen, Hot Chocolate, Humor, M/M, Snowball Fight, Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-17
Updated: 2012-12-17
Packaged: 2017-12-13 12:12:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/824180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lightspeed/pseuds/Lightspeed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Admiring the aftermath of a blizzard up at Coldfront, the RED team decides to have some fun on their snow day.  Soldier plays as hard as he fights.  Demoman just wants a freaking cup of hot cocoa.  Heavy/Medic is mentioned, but mostly incidental, other than a few jokes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Eight Inches

The morning was dim and grey, and the snow sitting heavily upon every readily available surface did well to muffle all sound. Everything was still. The kind of stillness that smothered all sound, a rear naked choke that pacified the world under a blanket of frost and steady, slow, freezing breezes. Some things, however, even the oppressive weight of the fresh snow could not stifle.

“They hadda send us to Coldfront in the middle of frickin' January, didn't they? Back from furlough and I shoulda stayed in Boston if I wanted this kinda weather!” Scout's voice, grumpy and wavering as his body shivered, carried clear across the empty field that lay behind the RED base, where scattered machines were now simply soft lumps in the deep carpet of snow that had massed over the previous night.

Beside him, Medic shook his head, the ear-flaps on his ushanka wobbling a little with the motion. “You should bundle up more if you are going to be out here, Scout. My medigun cannot cure ze common cold. Not yet at least. Besides, I zink it is razzah beautiful. Pure, clean, white snow. It is peaceful.”

“Yeah, it sure is pretty,” Scout conceded. “But does it have ta be so cold? If it stays like this, I'm not fightin' tomorrow. You chuckleheads can forget about it. I can't run in this! Shit, I can barely stand in it.”

A large form appeared beside the shaking, grousing young man. Dwarfing Scout in every dimension, a soft chuckle rumbled out of Heavy, his breath puffing out through the scarf wrapped around his mouth. He turned to the smaller man, a smile in his blue eyes to make up for the one obscured by his scarf. “Little Scout does not know what winter is. Your snowfalls here are tiny compared to home in Russia. This is like a...” he took a moment to ponder a good simile, “this is a Tuesday for me.”

Scout shot Heavy a skeptical look. “Yer tellin' me eight inches overnight is a regular thing?”

“You might wanna ask the Doc about that one, son. Get the feelin' he's got a good idea.” All three men turned to see Engineer stooping a little to step under the roll-up metal shutter door of the base. He yanked it down behind him and stepped on the outside hand grip with his heel to make sure it was closed all of the way. Turning back to his teammates, he found Scout doubled over, hands on his knees, laughing.

Medic pushed his glasses up from the nosepiece, mostly to hide his reddening face with his hand. He sputtered a bit, but ultimately failed to come up with any protests that didn't incriminate himself, sell Heavy short, or both.

Heavy, for his part, boomed out a laugh that shook some snow from a nearby shrub. He shot Medic a knowing grin, making the doctor finally break down into a small chuckle of his own. “Engineer has been peeping Thomas?”

“Just happened to be on the same side of the base and not deaf,” Scout managed between receding chuckles, wiping a tear from his eye.

A short, loud laugh escaped Heavy in reward for the shot, and the big Russian finally nodded to the Engineer a proper greeting at last. “But, is not what we are talking about. We are talking about snow in Russia.”

“You ain't never been in New England in the winter, Big Guy. You think Russia's hot shit, you try Massachusetts.” Drawing himself back up to his full height, Scout looked to Heavy, about to say something further, when his world became a shock of cold and wet as a snowball exploded across his cheek. Reeling, Scout stumbled back and turned to see Medic holding a second snowball in his gloved hands.

The Medic was generally a rather nice guy. Friendly and jovial, if a bit absent-minded. He was German, so he knew how to have a good time, and when pressed, could keep up with Demoman if the contest was beer-related. But now, he wore a look of sheer malevolence. His mouth was drawn into that tight grin he wore when his bone saw cut deep into the flesh of a BLU mercenary, or when he popped a new cartridge of syringes into his gun. It was a grin of bloodlust, and of superiority. And now, that grin was accompanied by a wind up, and a large snowball speeding from his hand right for Scout's head.

Scout ducked, the ball barely sailing past the top of his head and landing ineffectually in the snow behind him. With practiced movements, his body a smooth blur of motion, he scooped a large handful of snow, brought his other hand over to pack it between thick gloves, and let fly with the projectile.

Medic tried to dodge, but caught the snowball in the shoulder for his efforts, a wet spray pelting him in the face as the ball exploded against his body. A loud chuckle escaped him as his failure became apparent. “A good shot, but zis battle has just begun! Come, mein Heavy, ve shall teach zese Americans how to properly vage a snow var!”

Whirling around, his long winter coat flapping heavily against his legs, Medic found Heavy standing with an arm full of snowballs, ready to go. The big Russian grinned eagerly to his doctor, and the two tore off into the snow, headed for a nearby point of elevation, a small hillock some twenty meters away, to make their stand. It was, of course, no small feat, with the storm overnight atop the pre-existing snow bringing its full height up to their knees.

Scout and Engineer stood quietly, watching the spectacle for a moment, before turning to each other. Exchanging a look, the two trundled off into the field to find their own position to claim, and fortifications commenced.

***

“What in the name of Sun Tzu is going on out there?”

The scent of chocolate and buttered toast wafted through the mess hall. Standing at a nearby counter, Demoman was busily at work buttering a huge stack of toast, and cutting them diagonally. His hands moved swiftly, and without need for attention as his gaze turned to Soldier, standing at the window, his helmet tilted back and about to fall off of his head, as he pressed his nose to the glass. He was glaring disapprovingly at something outside.

“What's the matter, lad? Wait, lemme guess, Scout made a giant willie out of snow again, din't 'e? Is it uncircumcised this time?” Stepping away from the counter, and snatching up one of two mugs of hot cocoa sitting beside the plate of toast, Demoman sidled up to Soldier.

“Battlements,” Soldier corrected, jabbing a finger against the glass. “There's a Russo-Germanic alliance over on that hill, and they're stockpiling ammunition. Their fortifications are paltry at best. Over there, an all-American bunker if there ever was one. Looks like Engie's got blueprints over there and everything. Betcha they haven't even started on ammo. Look at the crenelations. They've put all of their energy into those walls, and left their rear completely unprotected.”

His lucid assessment caught Demoman off-guard, as he scanned the snowy field to take note of the accuracy of Soldier's observations. “Bloody 'ell, that's terrifyin',” he mumbled to himself, taking a careful sip from the piping-hot mug of cocoa.

“Right? This is no way to run a war!” Soldier turned to his friend, and seized the mug from his hands. “Those boys out there should know better! We defend and attack forts for a living! And they can't even do it right at play? A disgrace! I'll show 'em how to run a war!” 

Raising the mug to his lips, Soldier took a deep gulp of the cocoa, his eyes going wide as the hot liquid scalded his tongue and burnt all of the sensitive skin inside of his mouth. With a sharp intake of breath, he finished the mug of cocoa, and handed it back to Demoman, one eye twitching. He turned on his heel and stalked out of the room, a soft, muffled cry of agony trying desperately to escape his ruined mouth.

Demoman watched Soldier go with a smirk, and looked down at the empty mug with a sigh. He turned back to the counter, to find the remaining mug of cocoa in the delicate, gloved hand of the Spy, who was in the middle of dunking a slice of toast into the hot chocolate. Spy froze, caught, and looked about the room for an avenue of escape.

“Me cocoa! Me toast! Ye bloody Spy!” Demoman fumed.

Spy set down the cocoa, popped the toast into his mouth, and slapped the cloak button on his watch. His body faded from view, and Demoman heard the Spy's soft footsteps as he hurried out of the room. With a grumble, the Scotsman decided not to persue, and set about getting out more bread to toast.

***

“Do you really think this contraption will work, Truckie?” Sniper asked, sliding a few fingers under his hat to scratch at the top of his head.

Engineer knelt next to the lanky Australian, tugging at a large strip of what had, at one point, been the inner tube of a semi's tire. A few careful slices with a very sharp knife and a wooden armature later, and the stocky Texan was stretching it as the band of a rather large slingshot, which had been post-holed into the frozen soil beneath a foot of snow. “You better think twice about asking if one of my machines'll work, Sniper.” He wrapped the end of the rubber strip about the remaining post of the sling shot. “Hold this for me for a second, will ya?”

Sniper complied, holding the taut band in place as Engineer hammered nails through the rubber and into the wood, anchoring it down, then tapped a slotted metal cap into place over the top. Satisfied with his work, he packed his tools away and nodded to his companion. “That should do 'er. Scout!”

Scout looked up from his task of manufacturing snowballs. He had a sizable pile of perfect spheres next to him, and a somewhat smaller one of awkward, ice-crusted mis-casts that he had been idly chucking at the opposing base at random intervals. “We ready?”

“You bet. Bring that ammo over here.” Engineer moved aside to allow Scout room to put down his stockpile, and grinned at Sniper. “You ready, partner?”

“Never tried to slingshot snow before, but I'll give it a shot,” Sniper replied with a shrug. Snow had never exactly been his forte. He grasped one of the cold orbs, and loaded it into the rubber band. Tugging back, he popped his head up over the wall of their fort, to get a good view of the area.

Heavy and Medic's fort was a good thirty meters away, and elevated. The walls weren't nearly as reinforced as the fort Engineer and Scout had constructed, and their crenelations were too large. He could see Medic's head poking up in front of one, as he worked away at something. A smirk pulled Sniper's mouth, and he felt a chill on his teeth as the cold air rushed through his parted lips. Eyeing his target up, he descended back into the fort, and lined up the shot through an opening Engineer had carved into the wall. He waited, patiently, until Medic stopped moving around so much, and took the shot.

As Sniper's hands left the rubber band, the tube snapped forward, launching its payload into the air at a breakneck speed. Scout popped up from the battlements to watch, eyes wide at the effectiveness of Engineer's contraption. The snowball nearly cleared the wall when a blur of red appeared in front of the crenelation, and a loud puff of gas hissed across the field. Pyro stood where Medic had been, his flamethrower in hand, pilot light snuffed. The snowball hit the compressed gas Pyro had unleashed, and streaked back in the direction it had come.

Scout yelped as the snowball slammed into his shoulder, knocking him back into the fort with a start. “They got Pyro! We're screwed!”

Pyro lifted his flamethrower over his head and shook it, laughing, before ducking back down as another snowball barely grazed his elbow. He was bundled up harder than all of the rest of the team, a mess of sweaters and snow pants and mittens. His face was bound by several scarves, and a furry Santa hat crowned his messy blond locks. “You were right,” he said, turning to Medic as he sat back down in the fort, brushing snow from his elbow. His voice was muffled by the mess of scarves around his face, hot puffs of air escaping the fabric with each breath. The poor creature looked ludicrous, bundled so far he could barely bend his arms properly. Even under his flame-retardant gloves, he was wearing two layers of warm knitting. “They did recruit Sniper.”

“I had a feeling. It vas too quiet over zere, save for the banging around of Engineer's building,” Medic mused, packing some snow against their wall to repair a small structural fault.

“Did not think they would build snowball slingshot,” Heavy noted. “Is clever, but is why we have little Pyro.” The big Russian smiled at the bundle of wool, nylon, and fur, who perked up, assumedly smiling beneath his warm casing.

“I am honestly surprised to see you vorking against Engineer,” Medic remarked, hazarding a glance over the wall.

“Are you kidding? I wouldn't miss a chance to snowball Engie!” Pyro replied enthusiastically, working on a small ammo pile of his own.

A snort escaped Heavy, before Medic's gaze let him know he'd better not say what he clearly wanted to.

***

Several hours of snow standoff held two thirds of the RED team tightly embroiled in combat. Scout's speed and skill with manufacturing and throwing, Medic's anatomical precision, Engineer's defenses and tricks, Heavy's oversized shots and many-shot volleys, Sniper's pinpoint accuracy, and Pyro's expert deflection held both forts at an uneasy standstill. The fighting was pitched, but neither side would concede, and neither side could gain enough ground to steamroll their opponent.

A quiet settled over the battlefield, save for the hurried crunching of hands packing snow, and the whistling of a brisk wind crawling across the field. Clumps of snow lay everywhere, and fort walls, badly damaged, were being repaired.

A figure appeared at the rooftop, standing at the precipice like a raptor about to swoop down on its prey. The sun peeked from behind heavy cloud cover, bathing Soldier in a beam of heavenly light. He grinned, cigar chomped between his teeth, glint in his eye. He hefted a weapon onto his shoulder. It was an ugly contraption of his own design, with a large, rocket launcher-like tube, attached to a large bulbous tub covered in refrigeration coils he'd handily lifted from Engineer's workshop. Flicking a switch on the side of the tub, Soldier felt the anxious hum of the machine as it powered up, shaking his teeth in his skull as it roared to a growl, sucking moisture out of the air, chapping his lips almost immediately, and drying out his eyes. A loud _ding_ sounded from the machine.

A roar ripped across the battlefield, dragging the attention of the six other mercenaries skyward, to see Soldier leap from the roof with a holler of, “SCREAMIN' EAGLES!”, his cigar falling to the snow ahead of him. In mid-air, he swung the launcher to face Scout's fort, and pulled the trigger. A huge ball of wet, soppy snow leapt, speeding, from the machine with an awful _shlorp_ , and went sailing straight for the entrenchment. Scout leapt out of the way desperately, rolling in the snow to his feet, and whirling to see the damage. Sniper, however, had not been so lucky, or fast. He now lay in the snow, his legs the only thing left inside of the fort, as the rest of him had been shoved through the wall with the force of the freezing projectile. He was covered in the stuff, his arms poking out of the chilly rubble, the wet, melty mess soaking into his clothes almost immediately. His sunglasses had gone flying.

Engineer let out a cry and ducked down behind what was left of the wall, trying to find something to protect himself. Scout, meanwhile, dove behind a snow drift and made ready to run.

Soldier wasted no time, swinging around as he landed, knee-deep in the snow. He pointed his gun directly at Medic. The German yelped in terror as Soldier fired, sending another wet ball of snow sailing. Heavy shoved the smaller man aside, taking the shot in the face. Letting out a roar, the big Russian backed up a few steps, clutching at his freezing flesh, blinded by white.

Soldier chuckled, and launched another volley, and another, until Heavy was blasted from his feet, soaked to the bone, and pounded into the snow. Medic cried out, but was swiftly silenced as a huge wad of cold caught him directly in the ear, knocking him atop his Heavy, snow lodged between his spectacles and face.

“You ladies have no idea what real winter warfare is! None! I'll show you pansies how to fight! I'll make snowmen out of you!” Soldier hollered, his helmet wobbling about as he ranted. He scanned the battlefield and realized everyone had taken cover. He had no targets in his sights. He'd have to flush them out the hard way.

 _Piff._ A snowball glanced off of the barrel of Soldier's launcher. He turned to see Engineer duck out of view, the snowball slingshot's band wobbling as he let go. Here was his target. Soldier rushed at the base, launching snow at the wall. Shot after shot, he slammed the wall with more snow, packing it in, over and over, until it was solid enough. Hopping up onto the pile he'd made, Soldier leapt over the wall, the terrified face of his Texan teammate below him. He shot, plowing Engineer over with snow, until his feet hit the ground, and took off into the field, two targets remaining.

Pyro carefully set the snowballs he'd made along the wall of his fort. Eyeing up trajectory, he raised his flamethrower, and took aim. Popping up out of safety, he let out an air blast, sending the snowball in front of his gun speeding for Soldier. Soldier juked to the side, and brought his launcher to bear. Pyro fired again, and again, more snowballs flying for Soldier. One caught his sleeve, just by his elbow, and the other caught the side of his helmet, but he was unfazed. Soldier let loose with a heavy shot from his launcher. Pyro steadied himself and prepared to blast. The snowball zoomed closer, and closer, and when it was just in range, Pyro fired.

Nothing happened. Eyes wide, the Pyro looked down at his gas gauge, to find it empty. He yelped as the mass of cold slammed into him, throwing him into the pile of snow and failure that Heavy and Medic were already occupying.

Soldier laughed, shaking his fist in the air. Behind him, the patter of swift footsteps approached. The American wheeled around just in time for the sun, hazarding another peek from behind the clouds, eager to see the chaos unfolding, to be blocked by the shadowed form of Scout, descending from a soaring jump, bat at the ready. Seeing that he'd been made, Scout let out a battle cry and swung, landing on his feet as the bat connected, slamming Soldier's launcher to the side. Soldier roared, dashing backwards, trying to bring his weapon to bear. Scout pressed forward, hammering the launcher again and again, until it was finally wrenched from older man's grasp, flying a few yards away to land somewhere, lost amongst the white.

Scout tossed his bat aside and cracked his knuckles. Soldier snorted with fury, stretching his fingers in anticipation. They stood for a moment unending, sizing each other up. Next to them, an icicle fell from the eaves of the base. By the time it hit the concrete below, Scout had loaded up, formed, and let fly with a snowball. Soldier just barely ducked, and took his momentum forward, charging headlong at the gangly youth, catching him off guard. He plowed Scout downfield several yards, before grabbing him around his waist, hoisting him up, and planting him flat on his back in a snow drift beneath a heavily-laden tree. Scout fell limp, defeated. The older American let out a wild hoot, and shook his fists to the sky. Looking up, his victory was short lived, as he saw the limbs above him lose their strength, and a cascade of white drop upon him.

***

“And with the low pressure, we should be expecting four to eight inches of snow overnight and into mid-afternoon tomorrow. Scattered snow showers through until Friday, with a total accumulation of around twenty-four inches. The governor has announced he is prepared to call a state of emergency, and local shelters are stockpiling supplies for the coming days. Stay tuned for our hourly forcast as this storm develops.”

The television buzzed away with local news reports, offering no comfort to the seven mercenaries seated nearby. The common room contained every blanket in the base, along with a large number of pillows. Hot water bottles, bowls of piping soup on tray tables, and freezing men littered the room. None had been spared the horrors of the snow war.

Demoman walked in, holding a tray. Eight mugs sat upon it, along with a huge pile of buttered toast. “Looks like with this weather, we're not workin' this week, lads. Good thing, ye have time ta recover from yer sniffles.” A smirk crawled across his lips as he set mugs and toast before each of his patients. Finally, placing the seventh mug, he looked to his tray, only to find the last one missing. Turning to look, he saw the offending mug bobbing in the air towards the doorway. “Bloody,” he dropped the tray to give chase, “SPY!”

**Author's Note:**

> Apologies if Medic's phonetic accent is grating. It was my first time writing him, before I abandoned an attempt at phonetics in favour of simply showing his weird vocabulary.


End file.
